The Mind Killer
by MinuSeveN
Summary: Psychic Blade Construction: Psych won't pretend to be something she isn't.


It's not the mundane crimes that make it to the newspapers. Brockton Bay was too big, too rotten, for all the little tragedies that stained the streets red and hearts black to even be acknowledged. I knew that, but it was always something else to witness it personally.

I stepped into the dirty alleyway. The muscled youth on top of the woman rose to his feet, using the dumpster partially hiding them as a crutch. I felt my mouth curl in distaste despite my best efforts to keep calm. Rape, and by a black too. Troublesome. You couldn't punch a black without being labelled a neo-nazi in this city. Who cared how much they deserved it? Perception was everything. The thought that a cop, hell anybody, might turn away from something like this to save themselves the trouble made me sick.

My lithe frame, clad in a classic cape bodysuit and the domino mask around my eyes clued him in. "Fuck off 'Mpire betch." He slurred. "'M not 'fraid of you." I thought I could smell the alcohol from where I was.

I almost corrected him about my allegiances, but there were more pressing matters to tend to. Not breaking stride, I spoke calmly. "Step away and surrender, or I will be forced to resort to force."

The bleary-eyed scowl on the guy's face, no older than thirty by my guess, deepened heavily. His voice raised and he gestured violently to the quiet figure prone on the ground. Her clothes were torn. "She's mine! You hear? Betch's mine! Can't leave me!" He seemed to realize who he was screaming at. Or maybe what he was saying. Odds were he was completely out of it, but he toned it down. "We'ere jus' arguin'. Privatly."

If anything, his arguments only made me sicker. I was just four steps away from him and it wasn't just alcohol I was smelling on him. The bitter-sweet scent was familiar from me from school. I repeated myself. "Step away. Now."

The aggressor actually raised his hands and took a step to the side. I didn't relax. A step closer and my caution proved warranted. With a roar, he launched himself at me. I dived diagonally, my daggers igniting in front of my closed fists. The constructs of purple not-fire, closer to spikes than blades like this, illuminated us with their eerie light. My eyes matched them. I shoved my right fist to the side as he barreled past me, letting the blade sink into his arm.

"Wha-!?" He stopped short, reflexively looking at and checking his arm. There was no mark, but he would not be able to move it. I didn't leave him time to even think about it. I turned and slashed at waist level, passing my blade through his legs. He crumpled. "Shi-!" Then I punched his still functional shoulder, cutting off the nerves and sending him crashing to the ground. There were no marks left behind by my blades.

I grabbed him by his hair, mohawked as it was, and whispered. "I warned you." My other hand drew back, the spike still present there becoming less real but more affected. And then I shoved it inside his brain. He screamed. Pain consumed his senses, leaving nothing else. I withdrew just as fast, letting him fall to the pavement.

I was panting. Panic, exertion or something else? Crime is so fast. It happens in the blink of an eye. You miss it, but not its consequences. How does one punish the guilty for their crimes? How to discourage them? What is the answer when the deed is already done, when the victims are already suffering? The only compensation I could give was pain itself.

I ignored the crazy boyfriend's pained hollering and walked back to the victim. The woman was laying on her stomach, staring at me wide-eyed. Only when I was close enough to see the purple energy reflect on her eyes did I understand the fear also present in them. I relaxed my hands and powers, letting the otherworldly light dissolve into the night's air. "It will be alright." I assured her. I was sure it didn't really work. It made the next bit more painful to get out. "Are you well enough to call the police?"

She looked at me, shaking in place. But just as I was about give up on her, she spoke up. "What…" She swallowed and I noticed the bruises on her throat. "What about Nigel?"

Nigel? She did not mean that man, did she? I shot a look over my shoulder, where he was ineffectually trying to writhe on the ground. The woman watched me, a strange look on her face. She did. "Everything is temporary. Twenty-four hours maximum." Except the mental effects of being effectively tortured, but I omitted that detail. "Can you call the police by yourself?"

She blinked. "Y-yes."

I nodded and turned away, walking past my own victim and out into the night.

"Thank you!" Her rough voice called out.

I paused momentarily. But I resumed my march without looking back. She was thanking me like I was a hero. But I knew Psych. And she was no hero. Heroes don't torture, heroes don't kill.


End file.
